Tiny hidden pockets of belief

This is a story about which beliefs we keep, which we don't even notice, and which we can only fully let go of together. If you can't trust gentle empathic women who occasionally swear in ways that would make sailors blush, this story may not be for you.

1.

Writers can work from anywhere, they say. Except that writers like me work best when our people friends or dogs, cats, plants, trees, kids, or other neighbors are fully present with us, and sadly we live in a world where not all our friends, family, and neighbors are allowed and welcome in oh so many places. In a big win for our family– and the teeniest win for whole-family inclusion– this week we learned that a coffee shop I like to work in when we're in the city now allows well behaved dogs inside. Huzzah! I finally get to write with my family present!

If you enjoy this story, you have Cora dog to thank. She draws loving humans to us like hummingbirds to a red blooming flower. Warm, generous people of all ages easily introduce themselves to her, scratch her ears and rub her gentle-and-aggressive wiggling butt that backs right into their hands. And then they say Hi to me or they ask if they can pet her when she's already put her wise and trusting fuzz butt into their hands. Hello, strangers. Hello, kind strangers. Hello, neighbors who pull my head up above the fog of global pain and pointless loss and howling rage. Hello, hope for humanity. Thank you for greeting our always-smiling dog who often arrives butt first. And her pal, Lori, who tends to show up nose-in-book or nose-in-laptop or nose in -journal, -flowers, -weeds, -trees, or -phone. A being trickier to engage with in person. At least for humans.

2.

It's dark and raining today. As vivid spring's greens emerge to delight us, we're aware that toxic black rain is falling on Tehran– a city with a core population larger than New York City's– thanks to the monstrous Israeli and U.S. federal governments and their racist, greedy, billionaire backers/owners. Toxic black rain is falling on kids and babies. Grandmas and grandpas. Birds and trees and flowers. What utter fools and monsters all these supposedly "big" men are. We listen as a springtime choir of frogs emerges to sing here each night. And to Iranian parents screaming and mourning their children near twice-bombed schools. Because bombing a school just once isn't cruel enough for the U.S. government. If you bomb a school, and then you wait 40 minutes and bomb the same place again, you get to bomb more family members and aid workers, too. Thanks for that diabolical lesson in Gaza, Israeli government. Not that the U.S. government needs lessons in the diabolical. This morning I listened to a tiny Iranian child scream for his mother and demand to be taken to her, and I heard brave aid workers lie to him, telling him he will see her again soon, just so they could move him away from a very dangerous situation. And his dead mother, who he couldn't see. I hear their voices and I remember my favorite poetry teacher at university 35 years ago– an elderly Iranian man who taught me more about the beauty and poetry within and around us– at the University of Nevada Reno of all places– than every man I'd met before him. Or have met, since.

Only deeply deranged people would fear, harm, or ignore the Iranian people or seek to take even more from those who have already lost so much. Cora dog sniffs the floor for crumbs of banana bread at my feet: one of the sweeter perks of being a self-appointed and entirely self-trained emotional support dog for me and D. She sticks close as I refuse to look away from the pain that the U.S. government is causing. Lays on my feet when I weep. Every day now. I sing, I write, I walk, I read, I weep, I grieve, and I create– and as often as I can, I do so together, with others, and not alone. We know that soft and broken-wide-open-together hearts are the strongest hearts. That physically-present-for-each-other bodies are the strongest bodies. That gathering and singing and dancing and weeping are for grieving and celebrating, for both. And that voices well aware of their connections, and truly grateful for them, are the strongest voices.

Religious war MY ASS, you festering-wounded and murderous motherfuckers running our governments. Chronic abuse and greed and violence and killing children isn't spirituality. It isn't connecting to source or celebrating life and the living. Never has been. Never will be. What fools these old men be.

3.

Cora has to pee, so we go for a short walk. On the corner there are jolly, drenched and rain-coated protestors holding signs, most reminding people to join the nationwide No Kings March on March 28th. This is such a great, well, sign. Because we're not currently in the poorer neighborhoods that we used to live in– the neighborhoods where community changers and protestors have always come from– but in a super-wealthy neighborhood that we came to because they have comfortable leather chairs in their coffee shops. For my 55-year-old behind. But neither the dog nor the jolly protestors have me entirely. I'm still hurting and pissed on behalf of the 5-year-old boy who just lost his Mom and whose life will never be the same. I just lost my Mom, too, but at 55. It still hurts like hell.

Ah the joys of being an empathic being. Wow do I feel pain and rage when I'm mad. Takes a while to shake a whole world of intentionally caused human pain. Not that I want to shake it all. I choose what I hold now. So, we returned to the coffee shop comforts. Cora knows what's what. She's on my feet already.

The Iranian people have already lost something like 45,000 people protesting against their own government across the past months. They're already mourning. Already stunned by leadership cruelty that 1) seems to know no bounds and 2) even after decades, seems capable of learning almost nothing about what matters most in life or what makes life worth living. We understand that too. Finally. The Iranian people are already more powerful and connected to each other than anyone fool enough to bomb civilians on a failing-testosterone-and-Epstein-files-coverup-induced whim could imagine. They deserve none of this. Their ancient gorgeous culture makes our culture look like a rundown, abandoned McDonalds run by an angry diaper-wearing, poo-flinging, orange-demon baby on meth. The long game of the Iranian people is freedom and beauty– the same as life herself and all truly brave people the world over. Any fool with even one Iranian friend or teacher or even just a good heart plus a library, phone or laptop, and interest in history could figure that out.

Trump's got no long game. His only games now seem to be "disappearing and killing more children today might distract voters from the Epstein files" and "blame someone new while trying not to shit your pants again in the middle of your next 10-minute press conference." Colonial empire building is dead. Long dead. The richest and cruelest have yet to notice. Is it any wonder that the men in charge now look like zombies and dead men caked in ridiculously bad makeup?

The rest of humanity continues to wonder and figure out how to love better and wider and farther. How to change. How to help neighbors. How to receive help too. The very best thing about growing older is getting to more fully see others, light up from within in their presence, and getting to remind others just how beautiful they are. Exactly as they are. As we are.

4.

Spring sits sky-blue-sunny, over there, and pink plum blossoms in sharp relief against eerie gray almost-here rain, again, over there.

My writing circle host asks how we're feeling here in the weeks-long, split-second moment that winter finally walks away and spring pushes through. And my mind goes blank. "Where is my body?" I wonder. My love and I planted 40 bare root native shrubs into wet black earth today. Twice-washed hands still hold the evidence. These roots and sticks feel so fragile and brittle now. Like me. But we have faith they'll thrive, because they truly belong here. Like us? I'm native to Earth but often untethered so I struggle to feel belonging sometimes. I tell the writing circle that I feel more powerful than ever and like I can do anything at all when I'm standing outside in warm sunshine this month. Because that's true. And on rainy days, full of always-violent-U.S. news, I can barely get out of bed before 11. Also, true. Is this depression? This refusing to look away? Or strength? Maybe just stubbornness? Or being aware that this particular evolutionary leap we're taking together and alone right now is really really hard. It's just hard to say these days when nobody I've ever met has had to hold quite so much violence, villainy, horror, power, helplessness, beauty, and their own and other's emerging inner fierce collective punk ass bitch, simultaneously. Even the Black women in my life haven't held this much, which is really really saying something here in the U.S. This moment is so brilliant and glorious and SO terrifying and fucked up beyond all understanding that my abused-young-by-the-religious-right brain returns these words to me– "The peace that passeth understanding."– and I don't even mind. I've lost my taste for perfection in others. Cultural nonsense be damned.

I'm reminded of the time I wrote something similar. I think it was in my last book, Unshaken Wonder. Something about becoming a playful elder requiring you to take your train at least one– and often more– stops past Logic. Yep, logic and reason and clung-to facts helped get us this far. But this far, this whole timeline, feels like hell. Hell, but with fiercely loyal fluffy dogs and the unshakable, often unfathomable, kindness of strangers.

5.

Today I'm watching literal mad men apparently try to own and control half of humanity while trying to slaughter the other half. Then step to the microphone and try to spin it as a good thing. Or a Christian thing. Slimy. And almost every good man (cis het white man anyway) seems stunned into almost complete silence on the subject. Or, not silence, exactly, but also not helping, either. The poor dears/deer in headlights. Children are dying in schools and in the streets daily now– and the children not present are watching on their phones– and men continue to write articles about the impacts to stock portfolios and gas prices. Vomit. What a bunch of cowards. The whole world watched the U.S. attack Iran, unprovoked, and the Pentagon announced this week that there's no evidence that the U.S. struck first. The Pentagon. Are all men now trapped in 1984? Are all men nothing more than just words to be spoken on a horrifying page of history– spit-dribbled from a dictator's sagging mouth unable to form complete thoughts or sentences?

I listen to Prince like its 1999. Wonder when all good men will stop isolating, stop looking away, start speaking up to those who are content to blame immigrants or women or the poor of people of color for all the world's problems as billionaires become trillionaires, and just show up, to listen and to help, instead. We don't need you perfect. We need you present. We need you caring about life herself (not centered on property, wealth, personal advancement, or distraction), and able to feel and hold feelings and the actual lived realities of neighbors. I'm watching and feeling an entire generation of young women decide their lives are or will be so much simpler and easier and better without any straight men present at all. I wonder how many men have even noticed. Young women are giving them up. In droves. Choosing friends and pets and work and freedom and peace. I wonder how much mama earth herself is guiding their collective decision, too. Perhaps more humans isn't the best idea right now, she whispers. You couldn't blame her for thinking that as centuries-old olive groves and forests she adores are bombed to dust. You also couldn't blame young women for leaving men behind in places where only women are held accountable, expected to offer 24x7 free labor with no support or respect, and asked to hold all negative consequences for the actions of humanity as a whole– even consequences for actions they themselves never took and couldn't possibly control. While rich men destroy the world we love, feel no remorse, and face no accountability at all.

6.

We swung into Greenbank Farm to pick up the native, bare root plants that I ordered last October. Plants– mostly 3-foot twigs plus roots– dug up by volunteers and brought to the farm for pickup by mad women, like me, and the mad men strong enough to stay married to us, to be planted at the perfect time for the plants, not for us. Their roots love the cool wet earth of now. Our fingers froze in the effort. Ah, matriarchy. There you are. Centering land, native trees and plants, community, family. And the screaming good deal of sharing and purchasing bare root plants before they flower, leaf, bloom.

Who was the woman who ordered 40 shrubs that will grow to be 10-foot giants? What in the world was she thinking? We don't have room for 40 huge shrubs. Where will we put them all? When it comes to wanting more trees and plants as neighbors, I never learn. And I never will. I've decided to worry about these beloved neighbors as much as the bees do. Which is, not at all. Because we love them. They will fit. We will all adjust. We will make room. Trim away bits to make space. We will even grow into and through each other as we need to.

Some people thank God for community. I tend to thank trees, plants, pollinators, wildlife, earth, sky, women, sunshine, gardeners, books, young folks, really old folks, libraries, small farm farmers, small businesses, small everything, really. Sometimes, in that order. True abundance is generosity of heart and spirit. We know it when we feel it.

7.

Inspired by his whole-world-loving writing, I said to a respected elder in our town last week– someone who spends his time cooking for those in need of both sustenance and in-person community:

"How lovely. In these horrible times, I’m glad to be shedding all remaining tiny hidden pockets of belief that we should try to hold the horrors alone."

We're shedding a lot these days. Here, its excessive independence. Isolation. Fear. Self-doubt. Always-privileged judgement. Trust in crumbling old systems that probably should have fully crumbled long ago. Cultural delusion. Addiction (hey, cell phone). Stale beliefs. Especially the belief that we are small, alone, and powerless now– so widespread in the U.S.– at least within chronically isolated white folks. So many, many lies to let go of. Even for those who've been shedding the lies together and for generations, there are a few more lies to go as we grow closer. If you fall for the easy other-blame– the problem is men, it's women, it's immigrants, it's the young generation, it's old people, it's another religion, it's another country, it's Black people, it's white people, it's one politician, it's whatever you're not– you have more lies to let go of. Yep, me too.

As we grow, we encounter tiny hidden pockets of belief within ourselves, again and again and again. The pace of encountering these pockets now– alone– is exhausting. That's why we need kind strangers who love kids and dogs. And brave strangers who leap into discomfort to listen and learn together and even who dive into danger to help. Why we need strangers out there doing everything to help that we ourselves cannot do, and why they need us, too, doing what we do. Personally, I love to blame the racist, government-owning, globally disloyal billionaires. Because imagine personally having enough money to end poverty on the whole planet and instead deciding to flash Nazi signs, blow up more rockets, litter the sky with star-hiding satellites, and steal money from barely getting by elders. Ick. And. And. Sorry. It's not even billionaire-backed bot farms, fake accounts, ads, bought-and-paid-for politicians, and wholly corrupt media outlets out there convincing you to just hide now, because there's absolutely nothing someone like you can do to bring light to the world or fight fascism. It's our own tiny hidden pockets of belief that speak to us. Pockets only we can empty.

It's our own tiny hidden pockets of belief that speak to us. Pockets only we can empty.

Maybe there are no strangers. Maybe there are only neighbors whose stories you haven't heard yet. Stories you can't hear until you empty a pocket or two.

8.

On land we honor and adore. In a city we used to live in but now just visit, and I still crush on. In a coffee shop that evolved to allow well behaved dogs in. Backed by strangers of all ages and persuasions who made us feel welcome far from home. And with Cora dog parked on my feet, snoring, and clearly dreaming new I'm-coming-for-your-coconut-non-dairy-cold-foam dreams, we held each tiny hidden belief of mine like a beloved found stone in my pocket. The weight familiar. Both the smooth and the bumps now comfortable to my hand. Where do we pile these beloved stones of ours together? Where do we more readily examine those beliefs so flat that they're now practically begging to be released across the water?

There are places where we can skim flat stones of belief out across the water together, delighting in their flights out into the air, and mesmerized by their eventual sinking into the depths of water that can hold them far better than we could alone. In real life, those welcoming depths to better examine and share our pockets of belief might be forests or orchards, libraries or community centers or non-profits already doing the work you want to do, or school meetings, or temples, mosques, and churches. Hobby groups and support groups. Making music together. They might simply be more intentionally gathering with family or friends– or found family– who listen well, or neighborhood picnics, book clubs, or talking with coworkers in break rooms at work. Or growing closer with people via protests. Or training to accompany immigrants and refugees to their immigration appointments. Or coffee shops. Or even in shockingly open and honest and helpful online conversations with strangers (women in Threads, I see you). Or a new gathering that you build day by day, one new friend at a time.

I run my hand across Cora's head, agreeing with yet another stranger that she has the softest fur we've ever felt. She's softer than the softest velvet. Softer than cashmere. And, she strengthens literally everyone who notices, greets, or kindly touches her. We can all feel it.

It's time to return to the places where examining our hidden pockets of belief together is not just possible but strongly encouraged. Welcomed. Invited. Expected. Supported. Simple. Even celebrated. It's time to remember that deep gratitude for life and for each other makes even the smallest being among us smarter and stronger than "big men" who trust no one at all, so they're always angry and always alone, no matter what they do. Just imagine what we can do together!

The time for skipping stones on our own is over. That got us here. But this here is not where humanity as a whole wants to be anymore. Always worried or angry, always being hurt or hurtful, always exhausted or overwhelmed or depressed or anxious or ignoring the reality of your neighbors, always hiding or violent, always feeling unseen or not heard. This isn't us. It's just us, alone and afraid, believing lies about human nature. It happens. And, this isn't where we want to be anymore. No amount of billionaire-backed creepy salesmanship and promises can convince us otherwise anymore. For that I am so grateful. Loving earthlings are coming together in braver and more nuanced and inclusive ways, finally. I can't wait to see who we become together next.

And yeah, I had to get one last shot at the media- and government-owning billionaires competing to be trillionaires in there. Nobody's perfect and I'm definitely not. The best we've got is open-eyed honesty about who we are and who we love. Like Cora has. And who our own deeply trusted bodies don't want to be anywhere near anymore.